


The Angel's Muse

by RedShirtWriter34567



Series: Hidden Talents [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Early Mornings, Hidden Talents, M/M, Sketches, Sleepy Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:35:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23442562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedShirtWriter34567/pseuds/RedShirtWriter34567
Summary: Crowley discovers that Aziraphale has a hidden talent of his own.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hidden Talents [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686361
Comments: 5
Kudos: 78





	The Angel's Muse

Crowley grumbled sleepily when he felt Aziraphale stirring in their bed. The demon threw an arm around his angel's lap without opening his eyes, nuzzling his face against the soft pillow. 

"Where you going?" he slurred.

Aziraphale laughed softly and ran a hand through Crowley's mussed red hair. The demon's scalp prickled at the touch and he smiled, pressing closer. 

"I'll be right back, dearheart," Aziraphale said. "I just need to check something."

Crowley whined and cracked open one sleepy golden eye. Early morning light streamed in through the windows of their cottage. The gold rays lit up Aziraphale's white-blond curls, almost forming a halo. His blue eyes gleamed with fondness as he stroked his demon's hair, his lips pulled into a smile. Crowley grinned at the sight and cuddled closer to his husband when he attempted to leave the coziness of their bed again.

"Stay here," the demon pleaded. "It's still early."

"I won't be long, dear boy," Aziraphale promised. "Go back to sleep and I'll be back before you know it."

Crowley tried to protest more, but the angel slipped free of his grip. He drew the blankets up over Crowley's bare torso and caressed his cheek. Crowley sighed at the touch and settled back down, his face in Aziraphale's pillow. 

"I'll be back," Aziraphale told him soothingly. "Go back to sleep, love."

Crowley obeyed when the angel kissed his head. He closed his eyes just as Aziraphale slipped out of the bedroom, wearing nothing but his dressing gown. He shut the bedroom door behind him quietly. Crowley inhaled his angel's warm, familiar scent from the pillow and fell asleep again. 

When Crowley awoke, he was still alone. He frowned and sat up, yawning and stretching, his joints cracking loudly. The little clock on the nightstand read 12:45, well into the afternoon. Where was Aziraphale? The demon left the bed, wearing only his black boxers. He picked up the skinny jeans he'd been wearing the night before, still on the floor by the door. He pulled them up over his slim hips and zipped them, then headed downstairs. The cottage was quiet, though in a peaceful sense. Aziraphale wasn't in the kitchen, though there was evidence he'd been there-the kettle still warm, dishes already washed and dried. Crowley checked the living room, but it was empty as well. He headed down the hallway toward his office and plant room, and Aziraphale's library. The door to the library was open slightly, so Crowley approached and pushed it open further. 

"Angel?" he asked. 

There was no answer, save for the quiet classical music playing faintly from somewhere. Crowley walked across the rug-covered floor, soft against his bare feet. There were a few books sitting on the coffee table, some of them open and bookmarked. The demon tilted his head to read the title of one and was shocked that it was a book about different drawing styles. He knew Aziraphale loved to read, about lots of things, but never did he really show any interest in drawing or painting, even though he enjoyed going to art galleries and museums. Crowley's brow furrowed even more when he noticed some notebooks on the table beside the books, along with some charcoal pencils, pens, even colored pencils. Curiously, Crowley picked up one of the notebooks and flipped it open. Inside was page after page of drawings, some done in color, others with the charcoal pencils. All the drawings featured the same subject: Crowley.

"Aziraphale," the demon murmured in awe. 

He flipped through the pages, actually recognizing when some of the drawings had been sketched. One showed him stretched out across the couch in the bookshop, asleep. Another was him with his wings out, the feathers shaded in perfectly. The sketch on the last page was a full-color drawing, and so realistic it was like Crowley was looking in a mirror. His red hair and gold snake-eyes gleamed up at him from the page, his lips twisted into a mischievous smile. Crowley put that notebook down and picked up another one. The next one was full of half-finished sketches, all of them still of Crowley. One was a full-body drawing of him, wearing black robes, his wings out, his hair a cascade of crimson ringlets. He was holding a red apple in one outstretched hand, smirking. Crowley was amazed. He's known Aziraphale for 6,000 years. How had he never known about the angel's artistic talent?

"Crowley!" Aziraphale's voice suddenly squeaked behind him. 

The demon jumped, almost dropping the notebook, and turned around. Aziraphale stood in the doorway to the library, his dressing gown replaced by his usual trousers, bow-tie, and a pale blue button-down shirt. He was holding a piece of paper and a pen in his hands, his eyes wide, his face a brilliant pink. Crowley was blushing too, his face and neck warm. He worried his lip and gently set the notebook down on the table, then rubbed the back of his neck.

"I didn't mean to snoop, Angel," he mumbled. "I was looking for you because you never came back to bed."

"It's alright, Crowley," Aziraphale said, quietly. 

He walked across the room and joined the demon by the table. He set the paper and pen down, and Crowley noticed that the paper was blank. Aziraphale was still blushing as he picked up the notebook Crowley had been holding, flipping through the pages.

"You've discovered my etchings," he said. 

"Yeah," Crowley agreed. "They're bloody amazing, Angel. Where did you learn?"

Aziraphale smiled a little, his blush receding. "I knew many artists," he explained. "I watched them, studied their techniques, how they held a pen or a paintbrush. I decided around 1941 that I needed a hobby, something to help distract me, but the whole time I was drawing my distraction."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Distraction?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "You're my muse now, my love. You have been for years."

"I can tell," Crowley quipped with a smirk. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale admitted. "I suppose I wasn't confident in my abilities." He smiled, his eyes twinkling. "But hearing you say that they're amazing makes me realize what a fool I was."

"Why 1941?" Crowley asked. 

"After you rescued both me and my books from the bomb, you were on my mind all the time," Aziraphale explained, pulling Crowley into his arms. "I was scared of what would become of you or me if Heaven found out about my feelings for you, so I tried to take my mind off of you. Unfortunately, I couldn't. All I could draw was you." He reached up and stroked Crowley's cheekbone. "You're so gorgeous, my love. You make a fantastic subject."

Crowley blushed again, his cheek warm against Aziraphale's palm. "I love you, Angel."

"I love you too, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, bringing their lips together. 

Later that evening, they were in bed, Crowley being lulled to sleep by the gentle scratching of a pencil against paper while Aziraphale sketched him, his glasses on, occasionally looking over at the sleeping demon, making sure he was capturing every freckle, every detail of the most beautiful muse in the world.


End file.
